Soldier, Sailor, Seamstress, Spy
by Island Species
Summary: My first attempt at a fanfic - it turned out quite...long... Mostly inspired by Who-la-hoop's 'Kisses Don't Last' Polly/Mal Monstrous Regiment fic over on Archive Of Our Own, with a nod to Adele Blanc-Sec (the comics), and a shameless use of Buffyverse as a deus ex machina because I'm bad at plotting. In conclusion - a hot mess.


**_Soldier, Sailor, Seamstress, Spy_**

Part One: Soldier

Chapter One

Soldier

'Mal – what is it you actually _do_ around here?' demanded Angua. She'd come striding into the Watch mess-room, where Polly was relaxing on a break between shifts, and Maladict was just relaxing. The Sergeant's arms were folded and she was wearing her most Sergeant-like expression. This was clearly not just a casual enquiry.

'Oh, super-secret, vital, dangerous stuff' replied Mal, airily; failing utterly to snap smartly to attention, or indeed move at all. 'Strictly on a need-to-know.'

'In the cellar? Upside down? Snoring?'

'Just conserving my strength until my unique talents are required in the line of duty'

Angua had a point – there didn't seem to have been much for Mal to do lately, and even Polly wasn't sure what, if any, Mal's official role in the Watch actually was. Mal didn't seem to be either. He'd even taken to doing the office tea runs, and whilst Polly suspected that a major motivation was making sure his all-important coffee order was met to his exacting standards, it still came to something when a vampire started waiting on other people. Either human society was having a good effect on him, or, given that the society in question was Ankh-Morpork, more likely he had some serious time on his hands. Polly wasn't about to complain. Her own work at the Watch in the semi-official capacity of 'future unofficial guardian of Borogravian law and order and general Rupert-manager in training' kept her busy and interested, and having Mal around was the pale, sardonic icing on the cake. He in turn seemed content for now just to be around her – but she hoped the vampire wasn't getting too bored. When Corporal Maladict had grown bored of army life, he'd quite casually deserted. By his own account, boredom with being Maladicta the lady vampire had been his sole reason for abandoning kin, kind and country, and joining the army under a new identity – not to mention putting himself through the traumatic experience of going 'cold bat'. Polly had concluded that it was probably best not to let Mal get too bored – things might get unpredictable.

Which was why she, rather than Mal (on the surface, at least) had been pleased when Angua came to fetch the vampire to be briefed for this new undercover assignment.

'You might not like it, though' added Angua, with, Polly felt, just a hint of relish.

'Dressing up, sneaking about, performing feats of stealth, daring and bravery? Sounds right up my dark, dodgy alleyway.' Mal was lounging in the mess-room's most comfortable armchair, so languid and aloof he was practically sliding off it. From her vantage-point perched on its arm, though, nursing her usual cup of sweet tea, Polly could tell he was interested. His nostrils were flaring slightly.

'Well, for one thing, you'll have to come up with some better cover, this time. You're a bit too obvious a presence in the city these days. And we're talking proper disguise, not just 'a slightly different style of exquisitely tailored midnight black suit stitched by orphans in a candle-lit garret'. Some of the places Commander Vimes wants you to get into are... on the rough side – and I can't exactly see you enjoying slumming it in rags.'

'Oh Angua, how little you know me' smiled Mal, with just a hint of gleaming fang. 'Clothes don't make me look good – I make clothes look good.' He yawned. 'I suppose I shouldn't expect you to understand, growing your own half the time'.

Angua refused to take the bait, so Polly thought she better had on her friend's behalf. She threw a sugarlump at Mal's head. With his maddeningly quick vampiric reflexes he easily caught it in his mouth, though, and swallowed it whole with a smirk. Mal could never resist an opportunity to show off in front of Angua, who was still making a valiant effort not to disapprove of him on grounds of both ancient blood rivalries, and his dubious suitability for Polly, of whom she'd become quite protective.

The vampire rose in one lithe, elegant movement, not quite bothering to suppress another yawn and a stretch, which he turned into a salute at the very last moment.

'Ok, Sergeant - Corporal Maladict reporting for special super-secret undercover duty. Fully prepared to sacrifice life, limb, and even vanity in the service of the great mission, whatever that may turn out to be.' He cracked his knuckles and grinned. 'Get me into wardrobe.'

#

Polly was at the Watch-House kitchen sink, half an hour later, washing up her and Mal's mugs (her determination not to tidy up after him had lost the battle of wills with her eternal inner barmaid), when a strangely familiar voice battered her ear-drums.

'Upon my oath, Polly Perks - I am not known as a lady's man but you, miss, are a sight for sore eyes and no mistake!'

Polly whirled round in shock, to find herself face to face with... not Sergeant Jack Jackrum. Perhaps a younger brother? A considerably smaller, paler, younger brother?

Mal hadn't done much more than stuff a pillow up the shirt of a borrowed army uniform, rub some greasepaint into his cheeks and glue on some false whiskers (there may also have been some socks involved, Polly refused to glance down), but the effect was... more than uncanny. Uncanny, she was used to, uncanny was _expected_ in a vampire – was, in fact, canny. This was just... weird.

'That's just weird, Mal.'

Mal merely gave an abominable chuckle as he swaggered towards her, leering.

'I thought you liked a man in uniform!' he growled, still in a passable imitation of their former Sergeant's voice. Then in his own, lighter, more seductive tones, as he pulled her towards him, grinning: 'What, no kiss for the cuddly vampire?'

That was the thing about Mal – he really _could_ make anything suit him. A fat, rum-soaked old soldier somehow became a rakish, twinkle-eyed, silver-tongued rogue. Polly remembered how they'd both worn the same threadbare, stained uniform of the Borogravian army, and Jackrum had promoted Mal to Corporal on the third day, solely on the strength of his snappy dressing. Heck, even coffee-deprived and hallucinating, half out of his mind in some parallel hell, he'd _still_ looked debonair draped in a dirty blanket with leaves on his head. LEAVES. Polly didn't know what supernatural power bestowed the ability to pull off foliage as a fashion accessory, but it was almost certainly evil. Possibly eldritch.

Then she pictured him lying unconscious on a straw mattress in that hut in the Borogravian woods. She'd carried the vampire half a mile back to camp over her shoulder, after the gods, with the earthly assistance of Sam Vimes, had seen fit to bestow a 50lb bag of Klatchian coffee on his head from a great height, stopping him in the nick of time from going, quite literally, bat-shit crazy. Passed out cold, face muddy and eyes red-rimmed, with coffee-stained saliva running down his chin, he'd still looked like a fairy-tale prince in slumber, waiting to be woken with a kiss...

She shook herself. She was fairly sure she hadn't actually been thinking in quite such folk-songish terms at the time.

'Get off, Mal, your whiskers tickle! And get yourself out of that ridiculous outfit before you kiss me again, you abomination.'

'I knew you couldn't remain immune to the charms of an old soldier forever' grinned Mal, flashing his canines. He winked. 'Want to watch?'

Chapter Two

Sailor

It became a sort of game – before going out on 'special patrol', Mal would try out his latest disguise on Polly – ambushing her somewhere unexpected in order to enjoy the startled look in her eyes, before they softened with half-pleased, half-infuriated recognition. Sometimes, if they were somewhere private, he'd try and steal a kiss, or something more...

Polly wasn't sure how she felt about this new twist to their relationship. Never quite knowing when, where, or even who Mal was going to pop up as next was...well, sort of exhilarating, but disconcerting in equal measure. It was certainly good practice for her field-observation skills, she told herself. She'd always thought she could pick out Mal's familiar pale face, dark hair and self-satisfied smirk in any crowd, but it appeared he had an almost preternatural ability to camouflage himself in plain sight when he chose. It was like the leaves and the blanket in the forest – he could put on what looked to be the sketchiest disguise, and suddenly he _became_ another person, disappearing into Ankh-Morpork's busy streets, a stranger.

'It's a vampire thing, I suppose' he said, when Polly commented on this eerie gift. 'We're good at getting people to see us as we want to be seen.'

'Does it work on other vampires?', Polly was curious to know.

'Up to a point, yes, although it somewhat depends on the vampire in question – like humans, some are more susceptible than others. I, of course' he continued, modestly 'have always been exceptionally talented in this area – combined with my immense natural beauty and charm, the effect is fairly devastating. Hence my irresistible appeal to even the hardest-hearted Borogravian bar-wench.'

He was dressed that day as some sort of down-at-heel sailor, the better to get a closer look at some mysterious shipments of earth that had just arrived at the docks, and yes, dammit, he did look quite adorable in a striped jersey, pea-coat and woolly hat as he lounged in the shade, smoking a ridiculous clay pipe. An occasional dock-side passer-by with nautically-inclined tastes would throw him an admiring glance, which he returned with a wink as filthy as the water that lapped at the foot of the pier. Polly didn't know whether to kiss him, or kick him in the socks.

'I thought you were supposed to be keeping a low profile' she snorted.

'Good point, Sergeant.' And instantly Mal seemed to dwindle, his clothes somehow blending now with the wall behind them - nothing to see here. Then just as suddenly he bloomed out again, exhuberant, to plant a quick kiss on Polly's mouth. 'Better run along now in your nice shiny breastplate, before you blow my cover!'

Polly narrowed her eyes. Sometimes these games were fun, exciting even, but then she'd find herself feeling – what? Unfaithful? To whom? Mal? The _real_ Mal? As in Lady Maladicta the vampire, who dressed as a boy in the streets by day but whose body in Polly's arms at night was female? Who craved coffee and Polly Perks as substitutes for blood and carnage, and who'd run away from her home and country and lied and joined the army in disguise and still wouldn't tell Polly what it was she'd run away _from_? Who, in the end, _was_ the real Mal? After nearly two years, Polly still wasn't sure she was any closer to finding that out than on the day when Private Maladict had strolled, nonchalance personified, into her life.

'What shall I do with you?' she sighed, half to herself.

'Leave the latch off the trapdoor tonight' said the drunken sailor 'and let's find out...'

#

' _That's_ today's crime-fighting disguise?' Mal was regarding the vaguely overcoat-shaped object offered to him by Angua, with the cold scorn that only a vampire can muster. 'That... _thing_ is a crime in and of itself. And a punishment. Have I annoyed Commander Vimes in some way I don't know about yet?'

Angua rolled her eyes. Polly, looking up from her usual pile of enthralling paperwork that never seemed to get any smaller, was reminded of her mother trying to get Paul dressed for church.

'No – only the usual ways. He's not prejudiced against the undead, but nobody likes a smart-arse. Come on Corporal, into uniform.'

'But it _stinks!_ '

'That's the point.' said Angua, not very patiently. 'It'll help you blend in. And cloak your scent from any... people. Or... others... who might try to tail you.'

'They'll have to fight their way through a plague of flies first to even stand a chance of smelling me' retorted Mal. But he shuffled his narrow shoulders into the offending overcoat, muttering sulkily,

'Ugh. It's all leathery and horrid. It reminds me of my uncle Boris. Did this come straight from the morgue, or did you bury it for a week or two first, for added verisimilitude?'

Angua coughed. It might have been a guilty cough – then again, she was standing within six feet of the coat. But she avoided the vampire's eyes as she replied.

'Well, technically...'

Polly watched realisation dawn on Mal's face like a great, big, angry fish. 'No. You didn't.'

'Didn't what?' she asked, not entirely sure she wanted to know.

'It's borrowed from a friend of Reg's..' Angua sounded a little embarrassed.

Mal swore. It went on for some time. Uberwaldian was a good language to swear in. At least, Polly assumed that was what he was doing, from the look on Angua's face (completely blank, as befits a superior officer who's trying very hard not to laugh). Polly's Uberwaldian was still somewhat sketchy, but she was fairly sure she'd picked up on an unflattering reference to Commander Vimes' parentage, grandparentage, and lack of prowess on the harmonium. She almost felt like applauding when Mal finished, turned on his heel in typically dramatic fashion, and stalked out of the room.*1 She checked herself, frustrated. More and more she was feeling like a spectator in her own life. _Their_ life. An audience member for the Mal show without even a front row seat. What had happened to comrades in arms? Or even just a night off-duty to spend time together, out of uniform, simply being themselves?

It didn't make her feel any better when Angua told her briskly not to worry.

'He'll get over it. I did suggest to the Commander that sending the Corporal to the Open Coffin might be a bit...culturally insensitive, but he just looked at me like I was speaking Klatchian.' Seeing Polly's bemused expression, she hastened to explain. 'It's a zombie bar. And zombies and vampires... well, it's sort of.. problematic. I suppose it boils down to a sense of... authenticity really. And aesthetics. I guess you could say that vampires feel like zombies are letting the side down, and zombies think vampires are, well, cheating. And you _really_ don't want to get your terminology wrong. Vampires are Undead, definitely not dead. And best not leave off the capital letter either, if you value your jugular. Whereas zombies are just dead. Or Dead. Or Living Dead. Or sometimes D-dead.' She sighed.

'Honestly Polly, if Mal ever invites you to visit the home country – just suggest a nice cabbage-spotting trip to the Sto Plains instead. Uberwald is a very tiresome place.'

Polly tried to force a smile. She didn't think an invitation to meet the family was high on Mal's agenda. Which was probably a good thing. Still. Angua and Mal were essentially on different sides of an ancient blood feud, yet they sometimes seemed more like family, in a strange sort of way. Whereas lately, to Polly, Mal not only looked, but seemed more and more like a stranger.

She tried to force down her resentment, and summon concern in its place. 'Is it safe, sending him to a zombie bar?' she asked, trying not to sound sulky. 'Oh, he'll be fine' Angua assured her. 'It's not like with us... I mean with some werewolves and vampires. Not an ancient blood feud – more like mutual irritation. The worst he's likely to encounter if they rumble him is some mild sarcasm... and Mal's pretty impervious to that sort of thing.' she added, rather callously Polly felt. She huffed a sigh, and tried to concentrate on the report she was writing on some unlicensed alchemists and a consignment of salamanders. Trust her to get lumbered with the boring jobs.

#

It was later. Much later. Mal hadn't returned, and Polly was feeling twitchy. Probably it was all the tea she'd drunk, she told herself. Eventually Angua took pity. 'Perhaps we should stroll down and see what's keeping him', she suggested, and Polly nodded, relieved. They reached the bar a little past midnight. The smell had hit them at a little past quarter to. Polly kept trying not to describe it to herself, and failing. Mothballs...dead flowers...drains...damp...that rat I found drowned in the privy that time after the big storm, back in Borogravia...

The doorkeeper nodded to them – not unfriendly, Angua had been known to drop in after work for a drink with Reg – and they entered the tavern, looking around for Mal.

It took Polly a while to spot him, which was surprising, really, as it wasn't one of his best efforts – a bit of greenish-white chalk and what looked like leaf mould rubbed into his face and hair. Still, the coat was probably more than capable of doing most of the heavy-lifting, and, quite possibly, conversation. And maybe zombies didn't have very good eyesight. Anyway, Mal seemed to be getting on fine. More than fine, in fact – he was at the centre of what looked to be a convivial group, engaged in a lively card game. Or as lively a card game as a collection of the recently and not-so-recently deceased can muster. There was a heap of coins in the centre of the table. Some of them looked rather old, with a greenish tarnish to them. Polly tried not to think of them resting on people's eyes. She shuddered. She'd not thought of herself as prejudiced against the undead – capital U or otherwise – but there was something about this place that gave her the creeps. Fortunately, there were distractions aplenty, such as the other items in the pile – gold teeth, a ring – still attached to a finger... not to mention the pretty zombie girl perched perkily on Mal's knee. She'd probably been even prettier before one of her eyes had fallen out of its socket. She looked at Polly – probably – with a slight hint of challenge in her more conventionally placed eyeball.

Mal glanced up. Relief flickered across his chalk-stained features. 'Well, if it isn't the long, shapely arm of the law' he drawled, whilst his eyes screamed 'Save me!'. Perhaps he wasn't getting on so well after all. Exchanging a quick glance with Angua, Polly strode over, and pushed her face close to Mal's, trying not to breathe too much. 'Evening, sirs, ladies', she said, in the good-cop-but-might-turn-nasty-any-moment voice she'd been honing recently. Mal got to his feet. The zombie girl tumbled daintily off in a small cloud of dust. 'Well, really' she humphed, before sitting down again in Mal's now unoccupied chair, and picking up his discarded hand of cards. The other zombies watched with interest. 'Can I help you, officers?' said Mal, then, almost inaudibly, through clenched teeth, hissed 'Arrest me or something, please!'. Polly gave a small nod. 'You're coming with us, lack-of-sunshine' she growled, swiftly changing gear into plain old nasty cop.

'On what charge, might I ask? _(thank you!)_ '

'A small matter of several years-worth of unpaid bar tabs' said Angua, appearing at Polly's side. Polly was rather impressed. She hadn't thought ahead that far.

'You'll have to take that up with my heirs.' retorted Mal, in a fair show of defiance. 'Habeas Corpus and all that _(get me out of here!)_.'

Polly took hold of his sleeve, and rather wished she hadn't. It was damp, with a distressing tendency to disintegrate. Indicating her truncheon with her free hand, she carried on with the nasty cop script. It was pretty easy once you got into the flow. 'You're welcome to discuss the finer points of inheritance law with us down at the station. Or down a dark alleyway round the corner if you'd rather go on resisting arrest. Choice is yours.'

Mal sighed, theatrically, then acquiesced, bowing to the gathered Dead as he tossed down a heap of small coin with splendid disdain. 'That should cover my stake' he said, barely wincing at the word. 'It's been a pleasure, gentlemen, ladies... until next time – anon. Lead on, Constable'.

'That's Sergeant to you' said Angua, giving him a shove towards the door.

They marched / shambled in silence for a couple of streets until safely out of earshot. Polly glanced at Mal. He didn't look on top form. His eyes were slightly glazed, and his teeth seemed to be chattering slightly. 'Are you ok?' she asked, when she judged it safe to talk. Mal turned, with a grin that was just a little too wide. 'Oh, top notch, tickety-tockety-boo, never better!' he replied, through teeth that jangled slightly. 'Thank the gods you came along when you did though – I thought I'd never get away!'. He giggled, slightly. 'Oh my dark gods who watch over little vampires, by all that's merciful, spare us from card games with zombies! I thought I was going to die of boredom, and have to be resurrected with the b-b-bl-blood of a thousand really lively virgins. I beg you, on my Undead knees, send me into the lairs of ravening beasts, send me to Zlobenia armed only with a toothpick, but don't, _please_ , ever send me back to that Abomination of a tavern. Talk about no atmosphere!'

Polly didn't know quite what to say. Even if she had been able to get a word in edgeways. Angua asked, a little testily, 'Yes, but did you actually manage to talk to anyone?'

'Talk? Hells, we did nothing but. Have you ever been stuck in a carriage with a really tedious stranger who wants to tell you their entire life history and those of their family, sometimes with iconographs? Imagine a whole room full of them. And lives that go on for centuries. Gods, I thought vampires were bad – but at least we have good anecdotes...' He checked himself. 'That is, if you enjoy cosy little tales of carnage and seduction, which, obviously, I most definitely don't these days... But that lot! Nuggan above... And they're all _obsessed_ with genealogy. And tax law. For some reason.' He broke off, probably not to draw breath, which he didn't technically need, but because his train of thought had trundled off down another siding. 'And the card games. Gods, the card games... I thought I could hold my own at Cripple Mister Onion, but that bunch between them have probably had at least five centuries of _extremely_ uneventful time in which to really hone their skills. I'm not ashamed to say I got rinsed. Actually I am ashamed to say it. My grandmother would be turning in her crypt - that is if she weren't safe at home knitting black woolly socks for my Hogswatch present - if she knew her favourite batling had been fleeced shirtless by a horde of shuffling half-lives... Wait a minute... five centuries doesn't sound right. There were 7, maybe 7.5 of us round the table...hang on... I can work it out if someone will lend me a pencil...'

Polly halted, and put a finger to his lips. He looked at her in surprise.

'Mal' she asked, 'have you been drinking..?'

'Coffee.' said Mal, a little helplessly. 'Lots of it. Someone kept buying rounds. Turns out they brew a very strong coffee there. A very strong coffee indeed. Of which I have, in the line of duty, partaken of more deceptively tiny _but_ _surprisingly_ _powerful_ cups than I can now count. And I am very, very good at counting. There's a chance I may have overestimated my limits. Estimation is not a precise branch of mathematics. But I would venture to estimate that I am probably now around 80% coffee. I wonder if I'd taste like coffee if I bit myself? Best not to try though. Naughty!' He giggled again. 'Oh, yes' said Angua. 'Klatchian Super-roast – _Guaranteed to Wake the Dead._ Sorry – I should have warned you.' She did sound a bit sorry, thought Polly, slightly surprised.

They'd reached their lodgings. Angua took a quick glance around, and sniffed the air. 'Nobody about' she announced. 'Come one, we'd best get you inside before you start trying to count the stars. Nobody will question another, um, unusual visitor to Mrs Cake's anyway. Try not to get mould on her carpet though.'

Mal paused at the doorway.

'You're invited in, Mal' grunted Angua, impatiently. 'You live here, remember?' She turned to Polly. 'Their, uh, traditional side tends to come out in times of stress. You might want to keep away from billowing curtains for a few hours until it wears off... Joke!' she added, hastily, catching Mal's pained expression. But Polly wasn't entirely convinced it was.

They parted at the foot of the stairs, Angua heading off to her room. 'See if you can get him to write his report tonight whilst it's still fresh in what's left of his mind – looks like he'll be awake for a while, anyway. Night, Mal' she added, almost kindly. 'Good work today, try and get some rest.'

'I think I'll write my report in sestina form' announced Mal, as they climbed the stairs. 'With really bad rhymes. That'll serve Vimes right for sending me to that place, and making me wear that... oh gods I'm still wearing it, aren't I? Can we burn it, Polly? And then kill everyone who saw me in it, and all their families too to be on the safe side? That was a joke. Vampire humour. Haha.'

They'd stopped on the landing outside Mal's room. Polly hesitated, not sure how to put into words what was bothering her. What was it that troubled her more – the thought that Mal was getting into danger, without her to help? Or the thought that Mal was actually getting on just fine without her?

Through the blur of his caffeine haze, Mal also seemed to sense the outlines of a Difficult Conversation, hovering on the edges of existence. 'What's up, Pol?'

'That's what I was going to ask you – what's going on? We're on the same side – we're... ' she hesitated. This thing between them still felt delicate and strange – she found herself unexpectedly tongue-tied when she came to name it. 'Together' she settled on. That felt right.

'I... I can't tell you. I'm sorry. It's too dangerous.'

Polly felt concern draining away, anger and frustration flowing into its place.

'What, dangerous like being hunted through the woods by an entire army with a personal grudge? Dangerous like being locked in a prison cell with a pyromaniac? Dangerous like a battlefield, or a court martial, or a half-insane vampire almost tearing my throat out because I say the word 'coffee'...?'

'Yeah. Maybe a bit like that last one.' said Mal, quietly. He ran a hand through his hair, raising a small cloud. Polly sneezed.

'I really am sorry Pol. It's not that I think you can't handle yourself. I've seen you face death. I've seen you face Strappi. It's just... there's worse things. Things you don't know about, things I don't want you to ever have to know about... I can't go into details.. but this is vampire stuff they've got me poking about in. And not charming, cuddly, Mr Nice Coffee-Drinker-Guy vampires, like yours truly. They can do all sorts of things other than kill you. And... ' He took a deep breath, that he seemed truly to need.

'And if they did, I wouldn't be able to stop them. You've never seen a true vampire, Pol. And I hope to all the gods you never do.'

Polly didn't know what to say. The conversation seemed to have strayed down some awful, dark alleyway, full of menacing shapes and half-seen horrors. Mal broke the tension, suddenly, with a sudden laugh, a kiss, and a tweak of her nose. 'But cheer up, lover. Odds on you'll never have to put up with anyone worse than your very own dashing Corporal – unless I take you home for Hogswatch some time to meet the abominable family. But we'll have to wait for hell to freeze over first. Now – get thee to bed, fair maiden, and sweet dreams attend thy rest. I'm going to go down to the cellar and count all the stones in all the walls and then divide the total by my favourite prime numbers. Don't wait up.'

#

Polly slept uneasily that night. Her dreams had a sharp, unpleasant edge to them, and she woke with a bad taste in her mouth, as though she'd bitten her tongue whilst drinking stale coffee. She wondered whether she was catching Mal's flashsides again. Mal however, when he brought her a morning cup of tea in bed, seemed breezily unconcerned, as though last night's disturbing conversation had never happened. Later, at the Watch House, he shrugged when Angua handed him that day's disguise – a shabby beggar – merely noting that the colours wouldn't compliment his eyes, before heading jauntily off in the direction of the Shades.

Part Two: Seamstress

Chapter Three

Seamstress

The weeks marched past, and so did a parade of rogues, vagabonds, wenches and other assorted grotesques that Mal more or less cheerfully embodied in the line of duty. After the incident in the Open Coffin, it was agreed that Mal could use some occasional backup, and between them, Polly, Angua and Carrot established a routine. Mal would infiltrate whatever dive was currently of interest to the Watch, gather what information could be gleaned from some light snooping, then when necessary arrange to be arrested, quietly or otherwise as occasion demanded, and escorted safely back to the Watch HQ by one or more of the Watch-persons for de-briefing and to slip into something less casual.

For all the vampire's nonchalance and swagger, it seemed to Polly that Mal was, in truth, enjoying the game rather less these days. The Watch was getting closer to whatever it was the Watch wanted to get close to, and Polly herself felt that Mal was being asked to get a little too close for comfort. It set her on edge, and her concern was mixed with a large dose of exasperation when she arrived to 'arrest' Mal one evening in an alleyway of colourful repute, to find the vampire rather deeper undercover than she felt was strictly called for. She got rid of Mal's new 'friend' with little more than a flash of her badge and 'polite officer's cough no. 44,'*2 then seized the vampire by the arm and marched back to the barracks.

'Ow!' complained Mal, but Polly only glared, and sped up her pace, dragging her dishevelled prey in her wake. Mal wasn't the only one who could stay in character, she decided.

'Just what do you think you look like?' Polly demanded, finally, once they were safely inside the barracks. It was only with an effort that she managed to bite back the words 'young lady'.

'Erm... a seamstress?' Mal looked a little sheepish, but the familiar pointy smirk was playing around her painted lips.

'Not a very good one, apparently. That dress wouldn't keep baby Jack warm.'

'Don't you like it?' asked Mal, twirling on the spot so that Polly could admire her from all sorts of unfortunate angles. The wink she gave was probably an abomination all in itself. 'I borrowed it off your mum'.

The vision that arose in Polly's mind of her deceased mother, a devout Nugganite who curtsied every night to the Duchess on the wall and had once washed Polly's mouth out with soap and water for using the wrong word for tom-cat; twirling and leering in Mal's abominable dress, was so horrifying, and so horrifically funny, that she had to stuff her fist in her mouth. It was either that or use it to rearrange Mal's now innocently composed features.

Polly had found herself thinking a lot about her mother lately – although not usually with such colourful scenery. What on the Disc would Mrs Perks have thought if she could have seen all that her daughter had got up to in the past two years? Polly hoped she'd have managed to be proud of some of it – she'd helped stop two wars, and saved thousands of lives, after all – but in her heart she suspected that her mother would have been too scandalised by the thought of her little girl putting on a pair of trousers, to take much notice of anything that happened after. Not a 'big-picture' woman, Mrs Perks. And as for her life here in Ankh-Morpork, with Mal... what in Nuggan's name would Mrs Perks have made of Mal? Actually, come to think of it, Mal would probably have swaggered up with boots and sword shining, turned on the charm and had Mrs P brewing up an espresso before you could say Abomination Unto Nuggan. Polly sighed. It was probably just as well that Nuggan had turned out to be dead too, just the echoes of a petulant, petty voice spluttering words into the darkness at random. At least her mother wouldn't be bossed about by him any more in whatever afterlife she might find herself in...

Oh, Mum. I'm sorry. Maybe it's better you're not around to see me now, with an Undead creature of the night prancing in front of me wearing the sort of dress that would get you sent to the Grey House on the spot, back home...

Her train of thought shuddered to a halt as she became aware of Mal eyeing her quizzically.

'What's up, Pol?'

'I was just thinking about my mother'

Mal grinned, her fangs stained with lipstick. 'Me too. I like an older woman.'

'Um. You do remember she's dead, right?'

Mal barely lost a beat. 'Yes indeed – just how I like my older women. Undead hellish fiend, and all that...'

'Mal, stop it. It's not funny.' It was, actually, in an appalling sort of way. But Mal saw the line that she'd just pole-vaulted across, and tiptoed daintily back.

'Sorry Pol – I think it's this costume – it's having a bad effect on me. I'll take it off now, shall I?' The last words had something almost pleading about them, and Polly couldn't help but relent.

'Let me.' She said.

And undressed, Mal was... Mal's self again.

It was only later, much later, back at their lodgings when Mal was gently snoring, hanging from a favourite beam, that Polly, lying musing in bed, wondered if the reason she kept thinking about her mother was because she was beginning to sound like her.

#

'I can hear it in my voice, I'm starting to _nag..._ It's not fair – I don't _want_ to have to always be the sensible one – but Mal gets asked to take all these _stupid_ risks, and then acts like it's all a big game...'

'Vimes wouldn't ask Mal to do anything stupid – and it's important work – but, well, vampires do tend to treat everything like a game' said Angua, who was once again lending a friendly ear, or at least half an ear to Polly's woes over sweet, milky tea in the mess room.

'After all, if you think about it, when you're basically immortal, it must rather feel that way... although not when it comes to you, obviously!' she added, hurriedly. 'I mean, I wasn't sure at first, but the two of you are really _great_ together, obviously, I know he really cares about you...' she trailed off. Polly sighed. Angua would probably never wholly trust Mal. It was just a cultural thing. Quite apart from that, the whole immortality issue wasn't something she could quite bring herself to think about too much yet – for Nuggan's sake, they'd only been going out for a few months...

'Look, I know she's super-strong and super-fast and super-un-killable and can probably even fly and all that other vampire stuff – I mean, that's why Vimes is getting her to do all this undercover work in the first place, right? - but it doesn't stop me worrying, does it? I mean, what if she gets trapped somewhere and runs out of coffee again? Or staked and turned into dust and there's nobody there to sweep up the mess and then it starts to rain and she ends up getting washed into the Ankh and drifts out to sea or, or gets swallowed by some mutant fish, or just _dissolves,_ or something...' Polly broke off for breath. 'I mean, those are the kinds of things I imagine when I'm sitting up till three in the morning, waiting for her to come home, doing Vimes' bloody _filing..._ Gods, I really am turning into my mother _'._

'Hang on a minute - s _he?'_ Angua queried, frowning slightly.

'Well, yes, she _was_ a _she_ last night – wearing some Nuggan-awful dress and pretending to be, hah! a _seamstress..._ '

Angua raised an eloquent eyebrow (it rather reminded Polly of the vampire in fact – perhaps eyebrow gymnastics were on the Uberwaldian school curriculum), but said nothing.

Polly thought about the sentence she'd just spoken. The _she_ had come out quite naturally. It had always been hard before, truly to think of Mal as Maladicta when she'd only ever seen Corporal Maladict of the Ins and Outs – but Mal had always professed to be above petty, foolish little trifles like pronouns, and in fact seemed equally insouciant and at ease in a dress and long, flowing locks, when occasion demanded. Polly had had ample opportunity to observe this in the past week – there had been a spate (what was the collective noun, Polly wondered – a thread? A gaggle? A euphemism?) of seamstresses, of apparently quite varied needlework skills. Polly had been required to help Mal into, and out of, a dizzying variety of interesting undergarments, and the experience had been...educational. Also confusing – at least for Polly, who had never thought of herself as someone who got terribly excited about clothes, or what was worn under them. Pulling pints in a war-time Borogravian backwater had never inspired her to cultivate an interest in fashionable lingerie. It was different, though, seeing these... _things..._ worn by Mal – hugging the slender figure, and inclining it into all sorts of intriguing shapes... but perhaps that was just the effect Mal tended to have on all clothes... Mal, meanwhile, would lace up a corset or fasten a garter much as they'd both buckled their sword belts and donned their regimental shakos, that day two years and a lifetime ago in Borogravia: here's your kit, lad – now get out there and face the enemy.

#

It was at that moment, when Polly was lost in undergarment-related musings, that Mal himself made a typically dramatic entrance, crashing open the door to lean, panting, silhouetted in the doorframe. He'd clearly been running, most probably away from someone – or something. He was in the soldier disguise tonight, the one Polly had come to think of as Jackrum's younger brother, but he'd lost the cap and whiskers somewhere along the way, and the greasepaint was running down his face in dirty streaks. He flipped them a ragged salute.

Angua jumped to her feet, and Polly almost swore she saw the werewolf's ears prick up – and her nose most definitely twitched.

'Did something go wrong? I was expecting to come and arrest you with Carrot in the Drum after midnight.' She sniffed the air. 'At least you weren't followed – quick, shut the door. Have you got it?'

Mal sauntered over to the table and leant on it, maddeningly casual. 'Calm yourself, my dear.' Polly felt her hackles rise, and was pretty sure she actually _saw_ Angua's – whatever hackles actually were. She hated it when Mal spoke like this to people – particularly female people. Her inner barmaid reached for the mental stick beneath the counter.

Almost certainly not oblivious to the tension in the room, Mal continued: 'Whilst I hate to deprive you and Captain Carrot of your trip down the local, a little improvisation is sometimes required. But all's well that ends well. I got the documents – though I did encounter some minor... inconvenience along the way. If someonewould be kind enough to give me a hand here...'

He turned, awkwardly. Polly drew a sharp breath. It wasn't just the shock of seeing the vampire moving with anything less than fluid grace. His coat was soaked with blood, and there was a cross-bow bolt sticking out of his back.

'Don't worry Pol,' he said, casually. 'It missed the heart. Though I'm afraid you might need a new pillow.'

'You took _my_ pillow?!' was all Polly could think to say at that moment. Mal turned back, cracking a sheepish smile at last.

'Um, yeah... sorry about that... but the one in my coffin is an heirloom.'

#

In the end, an Igor had to be summoned. Polly had carefully inspected the bolt – from both ends, as the pointy bit was conveniently sticking out of Mal's front – carefully instructed Angua to boil a kettle (that always seemed to help in emergencies – if only to provide calming hot drinks for onlookers) and calmly sent Carrot out to fetch some medical expertise, as quickly as possible. She had then carefully and calmly _not_ turned pale or fainted. She'd seen plenty worse during the wars, and she'd never been the squeamish type... but Mal's cool, set smile gave her a sick feeling in her stomach. She hated having been right. He'd got badly hurt, and it was all still a game.

She waited until Angua had left the room, then pulled up a stool opposite Mal's – chair-backs currently presenting something of a problem to the vampire.

'Listen, you daft sock-head - stop showing off your superior vampiric healing powers for Angua's benefit, and tell me if you're really ok.'

Mal winced, his face suddenly a mask of suppressed pain.

'That's an order, Corporal. And whatever extra supernatural strength you're currently wasting on STILL TRYING TO LOOK GLAMOROUS FOR NUGGAN'S SAKE – just drop it, now. Please. This is me you're talking to. Your long-suffering girlfriend, and also your superior officer.'

He smiled, then, though it was more of a grimace. Something in him seemed to relax, and drop away. And perhaps for the first time since they'd met, the vampire did look truly, bloody awful. Her heart did something funny. Mal spoke. 'Well, Sarge, sweetheart – I've felt better. Upon my oath, I have. But I'll be ok in a couple of days, I promise. We really do heal fast.' He reached for her hand, and seemed about to say more, but then a knock at the door made them both start, and look up. Polly saw the cheerful, insouciant facade slipping not-quite-smoothly back into place, as a new, but inevitably familiar figure paused diffidently in the doorway before shuffling in, carrying a large leather bag.

'Ah, Igor – good to meet, or possibly see you again. I hope you'll do your best for Miss Perk's favourite feather pillow – she's somewhat attached to it. As, at present, am I.'

Part Three: Spy

Chapter One

Scene 11 - an awkward fireside chat

There were no more 'special missions' for a few days after that, to give Mal a chance to heal up, and to wait for whatever developments might come of the papers that the vampire had managed to purloin. Polly herself felt shaken, stirred, and, for once, grateful for some mindless admin. It was almost a week before she felt able to continue whatever conversation they had been about to have that night.

The rest of the Watch were out on patrol, or engaged in various enthralling tasks involving files, and she and Mal had the mess-room to themselves for once. She had walked in to find the vampire slumped in an appropriately sagging armchair, staring moodily into a large mug of coffee as though reading a disappointing future written in the grounds. Polly cleared her throat. 'Are you coming, or going?'

'Who knows?' replied Mal, gloomily, not looking up. Polly sighed, and tried again. She'd discovered it was best not to indulge Mal in these occasional fits of vampiric angst. 'I mean, are you off out somewhere, or do we have time to talk?'

'Time? Time waits for no man – or woman - or vampire...' There was a short pause. 'Sorry, I'm being a tit, aren't I? Yes, of course we can talk. I don't think I'm going to be needed till after the day shift finishes, actually. Sit down and join me.'

'Good. Um. Can you take that moustache off first? It's a bit distracting.'

'Oh, sorry, forgot I was wearing that.' The offending moustache was peeled off by one curled, waxen tip. 'Ouch.'

'Who are you supposed to be this time?' asked Polly

'Oh, Nuggan knows. I was just trying it out. Angua said something aristocratic was called for. Or 'nobby', in her own unfortunate choice of words. I don't know. My heart's not really in it right now. It's a good moustache, though, don't you think?' The moustache was twirled between slender fingers. Polly had never seen a moustache being twirled without it being on someone's face. With an effort, she dragged her attention back to the matter in hand. The conversation. The one they kept not having.

She took a deep breath.

'So'.

'So.'

'Um..'

'Hmm...'

'Yeah. So...'

'The thing is...'

'See, the thing is... I think... I feel... like I don't know you, right now.'

'You...what do you mean?'

'I mean – we barely see each other, when we do you're pretending to be someone else half the time, you won't tell me what you're doing, won't let me help beyond lacing you into a corset or cleaning bloodstains out of a shirt – if all I'm going to do is laundry and paperwork, I might as well have stayed in Borogravia. Is this what we fought one war and stopped another for?'

'Polly...'

'I mean – just where do _I_ fit into this?'

There was silence for a moment, and then: 'Into what?'

'The Watch. The mysterious secret mission.' She took another breath - it felt as though something was sticking in her throat. Words she didn't want to say out loud. She said them, anyway.

'And _us_.'

Mal stared at the fire, as though expecting it to blink, or look away first.

'Polly. Think it through. This isn't a game that you're not invited to play. You're not being left out – you're being protected.'

'I don't need protecting'

Mal leant forward.

'You're not seeing the big picture - you're a national hero. They write folk-songs about you. You're on a bank note, for Nuggan's sake.'

'Only in the background' protested Polly, rather pointlessly, she realised whilst saying it. 'The picture's mostly of Alice really...'

Mal persevered. 'Whether you like it or not, you know you're basically in training to go back and run the country some day – _obviously_ Vimes, and the Patrician, and whatever other powers that be, aren't about to hurl you into the path of crossbow bolts and zombies with a grudge. Whereas yours truly - more... dispensable.'

Polly swallowed, hard.

'Not to me, you're not.'

There was another long pause. And then almost a smile.

'Well – does that answer the second part of the question? About _us_?'

Polly had to think about this.

'I honestly don't know right now. I'm still _really_ _bloody angry_ , Mal. But from what you're saying - there are bigger things at stake?'

Mal winced.

'Ouch. Bad choice of words. But – yes. That's about the gist of it.'

They were interrupted by Angua. She was carrying a pile of clothes. 'I'm sorry to interrupt. I've brought you some things, Mal. It's time.'

The vampire rose, reluctantly – then took in what the Sergeant was holding.

'I don't think so'.

The words weren't said dramatically. No outflung arm or strangled cry. Flat. Calm. Like answering the question: 'Would you prefer tea for a change?'

Angua raised both eyebrows, and tried again. 'Mal...'

'No. Do you hear me? No.

No, no, NO.'

' _No?'_ There was just the hint of a growl in Angua's voice now. She held out the bundle of clothes.

'You don't know what you're asking'.

Mal was always pale, but the pointed features were stark white, now.

'I think I do. I know this isn't easy, Mal – but I'm giving you a direct order.'

Mal pushed the bundle back at Angua. 'I won't. You can't make me. She can't make me, Pol.'

'Look Mal, I'm sorry, Vimes doesn't like it much either, but this is the whole reason he gave you this job – you're the only one who can do this. Besides...' Angua looked at the vampire, steadily. 'Don't you feel you owe something?'

' _Because of what I used to be?_ ' Mal almost spat the words. 'I didn't get any choice in that, Angua'

'You chose to take the pledge to change, though. And you made a choice when you joined the army, and again when you joined the Watch.' Polly had meant to speak up in Mal's defence, but the vampire flinched as if attacked, eyes dark with hurt.

'Polly!'

'She's right,' said Angua, not unkindly. 'And you haven't broken any of those promises – I know you won't break this one. We trust you, Corporal'

Mal said nothing, but snatched up the clothes, and stalked out of the room.

#

Chapter Two

Scene 12 - myself

Back at Mrs Cake's, Polly paused, breathless, before tackling the stairs to the second floor, having sprinted all the way – Mal could, when occasion demanded, walk faster than most people ran.

She paused, before knocking on the door of Mal's room. 'Can I come in?'

'Go away, Polly. Please.'

'Mal -'

'No, I don't mean... I thought about what you said, and you're right. Angua too. I'm not angry, I just...' the familiar voice had lost all its swagger – it sounded like a stranger's: 'I don't want you to see me like this.'

Polly was pretty sure she knew what Mal meant, but she pushed, anyway – sometimes you had to push, when you cared.

'It can't be that bad. Remember your half-crazed walking shrubbery phase?'

Mal almost laughed at that, but -

'You don't understand, Pol – it's not dressing up as silly seamstresses or funny fat drunks this time – this time, they want me to be...'

'Who?'

'Myself'.

#

Chapter Three

Scene 13 - identity crisis

Polly gently pushed open the door. Mal was hunched on a chair, an elegant red velvet dress hitched up over the regulation City Watch boots and slipping off one pale shoulder, and a wig of long, black curls, elegant, and improbably styled, clutched like a dying pet in her lap. His lap. Polly felt like she was looking at one of those trick pictures – rabbit / duck, pretty girl / old hag. You could see one or the other, but your mind refused to see both at the same time... She shook her head, vigorously, as if to clear her vision – she was getting as bad as Mal, thinking that any of it _actually mattered._ This is MAL, she told herself. Who needs YOU. Anything more is just...well - socks. Just dressing up - isn't it? Pull yourself together, Sergeant Perks. Time for the meat to meet the metal. Again.

She approached the hunched figure that was, against all odds, still managing to make a combo of hobnail boots, red velvet and teary snot look like a million Morpork dollars, and looked her beloved squarely in the runny-nosed, puffy-eyed face.

'Listen, Mal – you can do this. I understand why you hate it, I know you don't want to be the person you ran away from, and I'm so angry that they're making you – but I know that they wouldn't if it weren't important. You've got a job to do, and I'm going to help you get into battle dress. And then I'm coming with you, _and as your superior officer I will not hear one word of dissent, you horrible little vampire_. Now – on your feet, soldier.'

She'd got it right. Mal stood up, almost meekly, and allowed her to fasten the laces of the dress, and place the wig, carefully, like a helmet, on glistening, close-cropped hair. Polly stepped back to inspect her handiwork.

Mal stood in the dim light of the heavily curtained room, staring at a point somewhere over Polly's shoulder, as if hypnotised.

'You look...'

'Yeah.' said Mal. 'I know. I look amazing', and breathed a long-drawn, tragic sigh. Polly remembered something Mal had once told her about escaping from all the underwired nightwear and heaving bosoms, and snorted.

'I was actually going to go with – a bit overdressed. Not like yourself. A bit... much, really... definitely not doing it for me at all.'

Mal's eyes widened.

'phW _hhhh_ at?!' - the word was actually spluttered.

'You heard me, you preening egotist. Now, if you can find it in your undead heart just for one moment to GET THE HELL OVER YOURSELF, and -'

She stopped, suspiciously, and turned to look behind her -

'Hold on -you own a _mirror?_ What on the Disc is that for?'

Mal looked sheepish. It was fast becoming one of Mal's most practised looks.

'Well...um.. actually... We can see ourselves in mirrors. It's just you lot, humans, that can't. We generally don't have them on display though - they tend to be a bit disconcerting for non-vampires. And a dead giveaway, of course, to anyone who's feeling a bit... stakey... What – did you think my hair got this artfully dishevelled all by itself?'

Polly saw a flicker of fang in what was almost a smile.

'And now you know all my secrets.'

Part Four: Act 4 - into the belly of the beast

Chapter Four

Scene 14 - getting into wardrobe

'Here – put some of this on your skin, and try to look droopy' ordered Mal, handing Polly a pot of white face powder with the words _'Bride of the Night'_ inscribed on it in florid writing. Presumably it been borrowed, or purloined, from the Countess downstairs. The sky was getting dark, and a few stars were trying, and failing to compete with the rather more impressive glitter of Ankh-Morpork's light-pollution – nearly time to go.

'Probably best if you come as a more up-market version of Ozzer – borrow my shirt with the ruffles down the front, you can fit a breastplate under it.' The vampire paused, then continued a little awkwardly: 'You'll have to come along as my...'

'Snack?' supplied Polly, busily powdering her arms and face, and ignoring the slight on 'Ozzer's' parentage.

Mal winced slightly.

'Well, essentially – yes. But it's not quite as straightforward as that. There's an Uberwaldian word for it, actually – the best translation would probably be "dinner-date".' Another pause. 'There'll be a lot of them there, I should think, so you'll see for yourself. Just keep close to me, don't speak unless I speak to you, and if you can manage it, try and make your eyes go sort of... glazed and sparkly.'

'Um...Like this?'

'Not...bad' said Mal, not altogether convincingly. Polly, despite her army experience, still lacked the vampire's talent for the subtler arts of camouflage and subterfuge. 'If you could try for a little more _"drink deep of my life's blood, dark mistress"_ , and a little less _"oopsy daisy, did we leave the stove on?"_ , we might get away with it. Far be it from me to question your orders, Pol, but this is probably the worst idea for a covert operation since Lt. Blouse decided to liberate an entire fort dressed as a washerwoman.'

Polly remembered vividly. Off he'd waddled into the jaws of spiky death in borrowed petticoats and a bonnet, shrieking _'Lawks-a-Mercy!'_ , and when he'd failed to reappear, the rest of the squad had donned skirts and followed him – only to find that he'd actually succeeded in infiltrating the laundry, not to mention the affections of one or two enemy soldiers, whilst _they_ had been disbelieved – disbelieved! – by the guard on the gate, and had had to resort to... certain demonstrations in order to prove they weren't boys in disguise. Once inside though, the head laundress had seen them for what they were at once. She'd clocked Blouse, too. Funny, how differently different people saw different things...

'Mind you' continued Mal, thoughtfully 'that all turned out alright in the end, I suppose. Eventually. After all the fighting and explosions and bl..., um, stuff. Oh well – just follow my lead, and if it comes to it, employ your famous signature move and run for the nearest exit. Don't worry, Pol – you are my little lad, and I will take care of you.'

#

Chapter Five

Scene 15 - on the warpath

'Vimes _doesn't_ trust me, you know,' remarked Mal, as the two of them made their way through the back-alleys of the Shades.

'What makes you think that?'

'He's been having me followed. Or someone has. And it's not another vampire, that much I can tell. Someone who knows about vampires though, or I'd have been able to shake them off, or at least get a fix on who it is... I even wondered if it was Angua at first – it felt like before when she tailed us through the mountains in the war... but it doesn't smell like a werewolf.'

Polly glanced uncertainly behind them.

'Do you think I can pull this off?' she asked Mal, changing the disquieting subject for one that was merely terrifying.

Mal gave her an appraising look.

'Well... that jacket does hang better on me...' Polly's kick was dodged easily, with a laugh. 'I'm teasing, Pol – you look great. Quite reminds me of old times.'

'I don't know... I'm a bit out of practice with the whole 'acting like a boy' routine – and I don't think Private Ozzer would really fit in at a nobby party... It feels strange, being dressed in...' she paused, recollecting that she and Angua habitually wore the official Watch breeches when on patrol – they were much more practical for running away in, for one thing. That was different though, it felt normal by now, she was just Polly Perks wearing trousers. Tonight brought back memories of the war in Borogravia - she felt more as though she were marching to the front in impractical, dry-clean-only uniform. There was also the added worry that Mal would offer her violence if the suit came back with stains. Or holes.

Mal interrupted her train of thought as it was passing through one of the stations near the border of sanity.

'Just be yourself, Pol – they'll believe whatever we want them to believe'.

Polly didn't feel entirely convinced, but thought it wiser not to argue - joining this mission had been her idea, after all. One of these days, her sudden strange fancies were going to get her into trouble. Oh well -no turning back now. And if in doubt, go with what you know.

'Ok. Well - while we've still got time, could you brief me a bit more? And I do mean brief.'

Mal looked tired, suddenly.

'I hardly know where to start, but... Alright. Well... Look, I'm not going to bore you with the interminable Uberwaldian internal politics, the feuds that go back centuries and the names that go on for what feels like centuries. Take it from me, you really don't need, or want, to know. I wish I didn't have to either. Leave them to it, I say – all the Uberwaldians with any sense are getting the hell out and leaving the Old Country to slowly implode. But the others - well - they wouldn't stay put either, would they? Wouldn't stay where they belonged.' The vampire's slim hands, sheathed in soft, black lace, were balling into fists. 'They're here. In this city - in _my_ city. Even before Vimes got me involved, I could sense them – practically smell them. You know what they reek of? Tradition. Rules. Ancient Laws, even more Ancient Lore, and Ancient Family Ties that bind you up tighter than a child-size corset...' Mal tailed off, tugging fretfully at a stray ribbon.

'And what is it they want?' Polly prompted.

'Oh, the usual – dark power, dominion over life and death, getting invited to the right parties and annoying other vampires... especially this one.' A pause. 'And also to round up and kill all the Ankh Morpork black ribboners they can find - as an example to the ones back home. And thanks to some more than usually idiotic alchemists, some abused salamanders and a corrupt wizard or two, they now have a nifty little weapon to do it with, clean and simple. Well – simple, anyway. I wouldn't want to be the one doing the sweeping up afterwards.'

Polly felt a bit sick. Probably the ruffled sleeves, she told herself – they were enough to turn anyone's stomach. She waited for Mal to continue – then remembered that the vampire's genetically hardwired sense of drama, particularly heightened in times of stress, was likely to draw things out beyond what they could at this point in time afford. To hell with cultural sensitivity.

'Ok, just cut to the chase and tell me that you managed to pilfer one of these special weapon-thingies the other night, and you've got it hidden in your knickers, or even better, you've got _two_ and you're going to give one to me. Because although, as previously discussed, I'm ready for your sake to march into the jaws of death dressed like a total berk, I would feel a little bit better about it if I had a secret super-weapon. Or even just a pointy stick.'

Mal gaped at her slightly, looking momentarily aggrieved, but rallied quickly.

'Um, yes – that's pretty much what I was going to say. Although I'm afraid I've only got the _one_ secret weapon thingy hidden in my knickers, and I would probably have phrased it a little less...rustically. Oh well... hold on a moment.' There was a brief, silken rustle. 'It'd probably make more sense if you took charge of it anyway.'

Polly looked at the strange, surprisingly light object in her hands.

'This will be effective against a whole room of aggressively old-fashioned vampires with a vendetta, will it?'

'Well – it's untested, but yes – in theory. If it comes to it. And if it does – well, just use it. Don't worry about me.'

In the darkness, Polly rolled her eyes. 'And, in theory, how do I use it?'

A lonely gleam of light bounced off Mal's fangs as the vampire grinned. 'Just pull the pin, pray to the Duchess, and run like hell.' The voice was more defiant than confident, the smile fixed – like a bayonet.

'Trust me – I'm a vampire'.

Part Five: Act 5 - belly of the beast cont.

Chapter Six

Scene 16 - Enter the Count

 _'Lady Maladicta'_. The tall vampire almost purred as he loomed over them. They had arrived at the improbably decorative gates of an equally decorative mansion which appeared to have been inserted, knife-like, into the gap between two creaking shacks. The shacks had a slight air of embarrassment. Mal had rolled her eyes. 'Typical. No subtlety. It's like they _want_ to be spied on.' Having been shown in by a shuffling Igor wearing what appeared to be a collection of dinner suits from several different centuries stitched carefully together, they were now standing at the top of a vast staircase, looking down on a ballroom, being loomed at by an over-dressed vampire. Polly summed him up, swiftly, with her recently honed police-person's profiling skills, as an utter tool.

'My lady. This isan honour indeed, to have our humble gathering graced by a scion of such an ancient and noble family...'

Polly thought he sounded as though he were mocking Mal – but then again, maybe this was just how vampires always spoke to one another. Mal certainly seemed to slip into it easily enough.

'The honour is all mine, Count Dromgoole' she drawled, extending a languid hand, which the Count raised to his arched nostrils, and appeared to _sniff_ , rolling his head around with eyes half-closed, like a pretentious wine taster in search of a hackneyed simile. He planted a kiss on the pale knuckles. Mal preened.

Polly fought an urge to roll her eyes. Vampires really were an insufferable species! But the Count was speaking again:

'We had heard, my Lady, rumours, most distressing, about your loyalties of late... tales of black ribbons, of turning your back on your own kind...'

'Distressing indeed' interrupted Mal, coolly. 'I myself was most perturbed to hear them. They pertain, in fact, to my cousin, Maladict, who has been making an unfortunate spectacle of himself in town this season – as is his wont. Virtually gone native, by all accounts. In fact, he's partly the reason for my presence in Ankh-Morpork just now – the family hope I may be able to talk some sense into the boy. We've always been... close.'

The Count raised the inevitable, perfectly arched eyebrow. Eyebrow communication practically counted as the second Uberwaldian language, thought Polly.

'A case of mistaken identity, then?' he asked.

'There is a marked resemblance' admitted Mal. She eyebrowed the Count right back. 'But the more observant onlookers tend not to have _too_ much trouble telling us apart.' Her mouth twitched. 'I doubt he'd be seen dead in this frock, for a start'.

The Count said nothing, but his eyes were full of cloaked menace, and his eyebrows spoke volumes. Polly wished she were fluent. Mal might be digging herself a shallow grave here. Mal seemed to think so too. She murmured what passed for a polite farewell, and reached for Polly's hand, pulling her away down the stairs. Her grip was very tight.

#

Chapter Seven

Scene 17 - the party

As Mal led the way through the throng, Polly had a chance to observe the gathering. It seemed largely to be composed of the more traditional sort of aristocratic vampires, who generally kept to themselves in the remoter parts of Uberwald. Cosmopolitan vampires tended mostly to be black-ribboners these days, living amongst humans and adopting many of their habits and mannerisms. It was strange, thought Polly, being with Mal in a room full of true vampires, of the blood-craving, blood-drinking, blood-draining sort. Strange, and several other words, probably starting with 'mind-numbingly terrifying' and running through the gamut of appropriate verbs, adverbs and adjectives before petering out in a strangled yelp. But the part of her brain that wasn't urging every instinctive, animal fibre in her being to RUN, RUN NOW, found itself fascinated by the unfamiliar spectacle of Mal in this context. She seemed suddenly... the only word for it was _ordinary_. In a room full of scruffy humans, the vampire shone like a small, pale sun, radiating superiority and self-satisfaction. Here, the signal was lost in a general roar of self-belief. Perhaps that was one reason Mal had chosen to live among humans. They were more easily impressed.

As Mal had predicted, there were in fact a number of humans in the crowd, always close by the side of whichever vampire had presumably brought them along. Most had the glazed, anaemic look that Mal had tried to get her to imitate, and several swayed on their feet, seemingly close to collapse. A girl with eyes that did indeed appear to be both clouded and glittering was gazing adoringly into the face of her vampire consort, who returned the look with a smile that was supercilious but oddly affectionate. Another young man, whose grey face and fixed gaze reminded Polly painfully of the men she'd seen returning from the front in Borogravia, danced past them in the arms of his companion. Polly looked down to realise that his feet were dangling several inches off the ground as the vampire twirled and spun him effortlessly, like a doll. Elsewhere, though, there were vampire and human couples where the humans looked far healthier, and many appeared to be laughing and chatting with every appearance of bonhomie. Polly overheard a (human) woman remark distainfully to the (vampire) woman beside her: 'They do let themselves get carried away, don't they?' as both regarded a young couple lounging on a nearby chaise longue. The pair were staring at each with expressions of equal, ferocious intensity, as the boy lapped fresh blood from a puncture wound in the girl's wrist. It was, frankly, embarrassing to be around.

'Get a crypt!' muttered Mal, under her breath. 'And a haircut.'

Clearly it was, indeed, not so straightforward. But then, Polly already knew that, didn't she? She was, after all, dating a vampire herself. And, of course, Lady Maladicta hadn't got up one morning, blood-craving-free, and joined the black ribbon brigade as a lark. She'd made that decision when she was still – not to beat about the bush – a blood-sucking fiend. Polly wondered what had really prompted that. Rebellion? Curiosity? A sudden, strange fancy? Had Maladicta, or Maladict, just woken up one day after a particularly heavy drinking-the-blood-of-the-innocent session, vomited on the rug and said 'never again'? Or had there been something - or some _one_ \- she'd wanted to change _for_?

It was when she saw the tall vampire, Dromgoole, striding towards them across the ballroom with a snarl on his face, and the menace in his eyes no longer cloaked, or even wearing its socks, that she decided to ask Mal about all that later. Always supposing there was a later.

'Seize them both!' Polly felt her arms gripped by gentle hands. Vampires didn't need to get rough – though they'd quite enjoy doing so, if it came to it – said the firm clasp on her arm. Polly marvelled once more at the vampiric ability to communicate without words. It was like that mime artist she'd seen, and subsequently arrested, in Ankh-Morpork's main square last summer. Although possibly not quite as sinister.

She looked around, trying to seem confused and innocent, whilst judging the distances to any available exits, and attempting a rough calculation of their chances of making it to one of them with all of their limbs still attached. She wasn't a betting woman, upon her oath, but the odds weren't encouraging. She could tell Mal was thinking the same. Her face was as white and her smile as frozen as any mime's. Ignoring Polly, Count Dromgoole looked her up and down as though measuring her for an invisible box.

 _'Lady Maladicta'._ He spat Mal's name at her like a blow-dart. 'Don't even try to deny what you really are. We've been watching you.' He turned to the assembled throng. 'This _creature –_ this ribbon-bound blood-traitor – is Vimes's man. Along with his little gentleman friend here.'

Somewhere beneath the cold, pulsing rage and fear, Polly felt a small stirring of pride. She'd pulled it off again! Sergeant Oswald reporting for duty, yes _sir_.

Mal rolled her eyes, theatrically. 'Really, Count, your insistence on confusing me with my cousinMala _dict_ is becoming tedious. Not to mention suspicious. If you're working up to demanding I prove my, ahem, _credentials_ , I'm afraid I shall have to decline for the present. Or at least insist that you buy me dinner first.'

The crowd, meanwhile, were watching the exchange with every indication of snarky enjoyment. Polly felt her own eyes rolling involuntarily. Vampires! All this beating about the bush. They were worse than Ruperts. Then again, she'd managed Ruperts before – she'd had to learn. The trick was to keep them focussed on what they thought they wanted, whilst keeping them from noticing what you wanted, right up until the moment when they handed it to you on a plate. She could feel the secret weapon pressing against her thigh. If she could shield Mal with her body as she pulled the pin... But what they needed first was a distraction. She cleared her throat.

'Well, I wouldn't say no to a little show and tell – I'm here for the thrills, obviously.' She tried to give her voice a Rupert-edged inflection. Master Oswald, thrill-seeking friend to vampires. She was rather proud of her characterisation. 'Come on, M'lady – the gentleman only wants a peek, clearly he doesn't _really_ think you're a _chap_ , eh, Count? I mean – honestly,' she appealed to the crowd, who were regarding her with expressions that ranged from supercilious to mildly peckish. 'Look at that heaving bosom, what?'

The crowd looked. Mal gazed steadily ahead, with her best strip-poker face firmly in place.

'Please, just stake me now...' Polly heard her mutter, before clearing her throat, and answering in cool tones.

'Do you see a black ribbon anywhere on my person, Count? Surely you're aware black ribboners are under oath to display _their_ credentials at all times? Otherwise how are we to trust _anyone_? _Eh, Vlad?_ ' Her head whipped round to fix a nearby vampire with a gaze that almost knocked him over. Polly realised that she recognised him from the support group she'd once accompanied Mal to. This was bad – really bad.

'Indeed.' said the Count, stepping in. 'Fortunate that you chose to remove it. Not that it would have saved you of course, but it will save _us_ a lot of paperwork when we encase you in the usual silver-lined concrete coffin and drop you in the river.'

'Oh, brillo, a coffining!' exclaimed one of the younger vampire girls. 'I've never seen one! Can I watch?!' Polly swallowed, hard. When you were essentially immortal, punishments clearly inspired a whole extra dimension of nasty inventiveness. She wondered how long it would take a vampire to escape from something like that. Years? Decades? Maybe never? Perhaps the river was teaming with the undead. The very bored, very, very angry undead. She shivered. Also – paperwork? Vampires were so darned _finickity._..

The vampire that Mal had called Vlad, meanwhile, had stepped forward with a nasty smile. Clearly this was personal now. 'Forgive me, Count, but it does seem only _fair_ that the _Lady_ be given a chance to prove _herself_.'

He snapped his fingers, and immediately a servant was at his side, carrying a tray. 'Poser' thought Polly, furiously. 'How do they do that?' The tray was laden with goblets, and a decanter containing... _tomato juice_ prayed Polly, frantically, to the god she knew was dead, and had chosen not to believe in anyway, damnit. _Please let it be tomato juice_. Vlad and the Count shared a smile, as the servant poured out three glasses, and proffered the tray to each in turn, finishing with Mal.

'A toast, my Lady?'

Mal took the glass, with hands that were noticeably _not_ shaking. She looked utterly relaxed, if a little bored with all the fuss these silly boys were making. Even the heavy hands of the hench-vampire weighing on her shoulders she wore with insouciant grace, like the lightest of silken stoles. Polly felt a wave of love and admiration. That's my girl.

 _Unless..._

The treacherous thought snuck up on her, nagging like the ghost of a particularly obnoxious child.

Was this what Mal had been afraid of all along, when Angua had made her dress as... had made her _be_ Maladicta? _Maladict_ had pledged not to drink blood – Not One Drop. Polly remembered (it was etched painfully into her memory) how he'd asked – begged - to be killed rather than revert. But what about Maladicta? Some instinct told her Mal hadn't taken the pledge as Maladicta. She thought she understood fully now why Mal had been so reluctant to take on the role of her former self. Would Maladicta be able to resist? Would she even want to?

Lady Maladicta raised the glass delicately to her perfectly painted lips. The assembled vampires leant forward, slightly, as one.

'A toast, gentlemen. _Plogviehze!'_ She knocked back her head and downed the draught in one.

Then spat the whole lot full in the horrified faces of Vlad and Count Dromgoole. Their eyes flickered red and their fangs lengthened... and, ' _My shirt!'_ wailed Vlad.

Polly seized the moment by the jugular, and employed her signature move on the vampire holding her. He collapsed slowly, the hands that had threatened to rip off her arms instead clamped firmly on his sock drawer. The Count tried to floor her with a punch, but his hand met her trusty Watch breastplate, and she heard his knuckles crunch and saw his face crease in furious pain. Mal, meanwhile, was apparently employing a similar move, with added arm-breaking, and some Uberwaldian insults thrown in for luck. That's my vampire! Hand in hand, they sprinted for the door, as Polly reached for the weapon...

...

There was a loud bang, a blinding flash, and then a long, horrid silence, punctuated by coughing. Eventually a human voice spoke out of the clouds of dust that were beginning to settle.

'Alright, nobody move, and _please -_ try not to breathe too much. Now – has anybody got a dustpan?'

#

Chapter Eight

Scene 18 - after the party

At the banks of the river, Polly leant, panting against a wall. Mal was on the ground beside her, clawing at an outstretched tongue and making strangled noises.

'You ok, Mal?'

'Yaaaarrrrghle' came the response, which seemed to Polly, given the circumstances, both appropriate and articulate.

'The blood...' she continued, carefully '...Has it...do you feel like you're going to...?'

'Vomit.' said Mal. And did so.

'Gods!' the vampire continued, staggering upright again, 'I was scared, Pol, _really_ scared I was going to... but I just feel... sick. And I _really_ need a coffee.'

Relief coursing through her veins, Polly grinned: 'I should have brought a thermos. Sorry Mal. I'll make you the strongest espresso of your undead life when we get home; but for now -' and she drew Mal towards her in a tight embrace 'You'll have to make do with that other thing you like'.

The dark, glossy head rested on her shoulder. 'Thanks, Pol' mumbled Mal.

Greenish and sweating, hair half sticking out, scarecrow like, and half-flattened from the wig, lost somewhere in their escape - not even Mal could pull off this look, and for once wasn't even trying. There was a distinct smell of blood mixed with sick on the breeze that played around them... and Polly had never felt more in love. She held her vampire gently, but firmly, and looked up into the night sky – a strange part of her didn't want this moment to end.

'Look, Mal' she said, suddenly 'There's a full moon!'

'...'s werewolves' murmured Mal, blearily, into her shoulder.

'No – I mean... this is... really romantic.'

Mal giggled, slightly,

'You daft cheesemonger', and they kissed, softly, swaying in the moonlight.

And then Mal exploded into a cloud of dust.

#

Chapter Nine

Scene 19 - enter the slayer

' _MAL!'_

Polly opened her mouth to scream, and choked on vampire dust. _Oh, SOCKS._

The cloud ( _Mal, that was Mal!)_ dissipated, and Polly found herself, coughing ( _on particles of Mal?!)_ , face to face with a girl. A slight, fair-haired girl, rather shorter than Polly, holding a sharply pointed wooden stake. She cleared her throat, and spoke, in an unfamiliar accent.

'Look, it's been a long, also confusing night, so I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt here and not kick your probably human butt; but I've been tailing your, uh, friend for a while, and there's a few things you should know about...'

'About my cross-dressing, ambiguously gendered, coffee-addicted, undercover watch officer and _reformed_ vampire lover?' interrupted Polly, her voice shaking with rage and shock. 'Whom you just _killed?_ ' She added.

The strange girl seemed a little taken aback. 'Uh... actually that pretty much seems to cover it. Though I didn't know about the undercover part. I was going with a whole 'diabolical drama major' theory. And _reformed_ is... well – as reformed does. Or...doesn't.'

Polly gaped. 'What _are_ you?'

The girl stared back, steadily, then re-sheathed the stake in her belt with a brief twirl.

'Slayer' she replied, in a tone that had a hint of resignation behind the flourish. Then, as Polly continued to stare blankly,

'As in _the_ Slayer? The Chosen One, into each generation, special destiny, stands alone against the vampires and monsters, yada yada... seriously, you never heard of me? Maybe I should get cards printed. Or a special badge, or something...'

'You mean – you just killed – sorry, _slayed? Slew? -_ my, my boyfriend, because she's a vampire and that's _your job?_ Simple as that, no questions asked?'

The girl sighed. 'It's not a job - it's a destiny. I didn't _choose_ it, and no, it's not simple – it's never, ever simple. But opting for finely-honed instincts over being killed and eaten whilst asking _questions_ is a business model that's always served me well." She ran a hand through her hair.

'But I am sorry about your – uh – Mal. Look, I know you want to make your own choices – and I get that, I do. Just a word of advice, girl to girl...' (clearly the trousers weren't fooling her – but then, she was also dressed in trousers, and her hair was tied tightly back – though clearly her intention was not to be taken for a boy. Polly was suddenly reminded rather of Angua.) 'Relationships with the undead-' continued the girl 'they don't tend to end well..' She sighed. 'If they ever end at all...' She rested her hand on Polly's shoulder for a moment. 'Take care of yourself,' she said, 'I'll see you around...' And she vanished once more into the night.

Polly waited until she was sure the strange girl had really gone, then, using the torn-off cuff of her stupid ruffly shirt, carefully swept Mal's ashes into the box she'd brought along, just in case.

Part Six: Act 6 - the way home

Chapter Ten

Scene 20 - dust to dust

With fingers that most definitely did NOT shake, Polly unstoppered the small vial of blood from the Watch's emergency Undead first aid kit, and poured the contents onto the heap of dust... which completely and totally failed to become a reanimated vampire before her very eyes.

'But... but it's definitely the right dust... I'm sure I swept up all of it... did I do something wrong?' she stammered, looking pleadingly at Angua.

Angua considered the small, sad pile on the mess room table.

'Try your own blood' she suggested. 'That's worked before, hasn't it? And vampires tend to appreciate that kind of melodramatic gesture... sorry, Pol' she stopped, seeing her friend's stricken face.

Silently, Polly unsheathed her regulation short sword and made a small nick in her thumb. At least, she meant it to be small, but this time her hand really did shake, and it ended up as a minor spurting gash.

'Ow'.

'Yes, that should probably be enough' observed Angua, drily.

But the heap just sat there, turning sullenly to pinkish mulch as they stared at it.

'Wait' said Angua, just as Polly was on the verge of racing back to across town in search of what must surely be an entirely different pile of beloved dust. 'I think something's happening.'

The pile had begun, finally, sluggishly, to vibrate. It started to swirl, and seemed to be trying to form a shape... but as they watched, still no Mal blossomed forth.

'I think sh... he... is a bit... _confused'_ said Angua, eventually.

Polly looked at her.

'It looks as though Mal doesn't quite know how to come back.' Angua amended.

Polly looked back at the dancing blobs and specks. They did seem a bit bewildered.

'Perhaps it's best if I give the two of you some privacy?' Angua suggested.

'Try not to worry' she added, in what were probably intended to be comforting tones, as she closed the door. 'I'm sure you'll figure out what to do. You know Mal best. And I know a thing or two about vampires – I'm sure it won't be permanent'.

Polly devoutly hoped not – the whole Maladict / Maladicta thing had been confusing enough at first, quite apart from the vampire issue. She wasn't sure she could adapt enough to sustain a long-term relationship with semi-animated ashtray contents; a shifting heap of baffled, baffling, ever-changing jumbled up odds and ends of a person that couldn't even decide what shape it wanted to be... Although, now she came to think of it, wasn't that pretty much what she'd been doing since they met? And, to be fair, she thought, remembering 'Ozzer Perks', and other stages of their somewhat unconventional courtship, so had Mal with her, really...

She remembered what the vampire had said about being temporarily dead – that there was a sensation of being somewhere else, half-aware, waiting... She leant over the quivering mess once more, and spoke softly.

'Mal. I hope you can hear me. I need you to come back now - I don't care how. I know you can do this. And Mal – you don't have to worry. All that stuff – vampire, human, boy, girl – it's all just... STUFF. What matters is people, and choices. We can choose the people we want to be. And the people we want to be with. I learnt that from the army... and from you, Mal. So please, please come back to me. It doesn't matter whether you're a girl, or a boy, or a vampire, or WHATEVER. You're just... you're...everything... to me.'

It was only when a tear dripped off the end of her nose onto what was currently not-quite-Mal that she realised she was crying... and then the dust finally coalesced into the familiar shape, and Mal was crouched on the table, looking like someone who'd been to several hells and back without picking up a suntan.

'Pol'

the voice was almost a whisper.

'I'm sorry, Pol... I got a bit...lost'

'It's alright, sweetheart.' She put her hands firmly on the quaking shoulders, and gripped them tight. 'I'll always find you.'

#

Chapter Eleven

Scene 21 - epilogue

The next day was not a great big fish. It was barely seafood. Polly left Mal to recover at Mrs Cake's, and trudged, reluctantly, to the Watch House for her unofficial debriefing. It couldn't be an _official_ debriefing, Vimes explained, because _officially_ she couldn't have been there, against orders, endangering both herself and the fragile Uberwald-Borogravia peace accord, could she? She'd not seen this side to him before, and was suddenly able to appreciate how he'd got his nickname 'Stoneface'. Although he did almost crack a flinty smile when she described Mal grabbing the throat of Count Dromgoole and saying whatever it was Mal had actually said about the vampire's mother.

Mal's own official debriefing would take place when the vampire had suitably recovered to give a proper account – or, as Vimes put it, to think up a bloody good reason why the Uberwald Embassy shouldn't just receive the immortal remains of Corporal Maladict in the form of a small box of dust in tomorrow's post.

She sighed as she climbed the stairs to her room. She doubted that Vimes really meant it. After all, they'd basically stopped yet _another_ war, hadn't they? Still, she'd better warn Mal. There was no sign of said Corporal when she entered, but the trapdoor in the floor was open.

'Honey, I'm home!'

There was no reply from the cellar. She trod softly to the dark square in the centre of the floor, and looked down. Mal was sprawled on the floor, staring at the ceiling, smoking a cigarette, stark sock-naked.

Polly ran an appreciative eye up and down the slim, pale figure of her lover, taking in the well-known curves and angles, then asked: 'Aren't you freezing?'

'Yes' said Mal, 'I am. I just didn't much feel like getting dressed today.' With relief, Polly saw the flicker of pointy white teeth in the dark room, as the vampire flashed a brief smile. 'Care to join me?'

'Not without a blanket.' Polly grabbed hers from the bed and tossed it in the vague direction of the pale figure below, before joining both in the gloom of the cellar. 'Ok, snuggle up.' And she crept under the soft, slightly coffee-scented folds.

'Blankets... snuggling... not very vampiric,' sighed Mal. 'I suppose I'm still a bit of a novice with all this stuff. Sorry Pol, it must be difficult for you, sometimes.'

'Oh, stop wallowing and mooning' said Polly, briskly, reaching for the cigarette and taking a drag. 'Just because you've got the complexion for it doesn't mean you have the right to indulge'.

Mal turned to meet her eyes for the first time, and raised a perfect, Uberwaldian eyebrow. 'Speaking of indulging - smoking? Not very Polly Perks.'

'Yes, well – I'm not quite feeling myself today, shall we say'

'That makes – ha! - at _least_ two of us.'

'Mal?' said Polly, suddenly, 'can we just take off somewhere – please?'

Mal took back the cigarette. 'Are you suggesting deserting our posts, Sergeant? _Definitely_ not a very Polly Perks thing to do.' The grin flashed again. 'Quite a _me_ thing to do, on the other hand.'

'No' said Polly, slowly, the thoughts forming almost as she said the words. 'A leave of absence, or an official retirement if you like, heck, just a holiday! The gods know we deserve one... We could hand in our badges, and then just go somewhere, just the two of us, just for a bit...'

'Where would we go?'

'I don't know – you've been about, take us somewhere...fun. Somewhere we can just... be ourselves.'

Mal considered this. 'Carnival season starts in Genua soon.'

'That does sound fun. Although possibly a bit, um, dressy-uppy...'

'Good point. Klatch? At least we know they brew a good coffee there.'

'Sure – good idea. And then, after that – I don't know, whatever we want. Come back here, carry on in the Watch – if they still want us? Or go back to Borogravia, see Shufti and Paul, you can meet baby Jack, and my dad... and we could pass on some of what we've learnt here, maybe – try and help a bit. Or we could go somewhere else entirely. I think though... I think the most important thing is what Jackrum told me - that we do it as ourselves. Whatever, and whoever we want that to be.'

(Corporal) Mal(adict)(a) inhaled, slowly, and blew a languid double smoke-ring toward the rafters before replying. Definitely recovering that poise, thought Polly with relief.

'Sounds like a plan, Sergeant.' said Mal. 'Let's seize that fish.'

THE END

1 *The coat, lacking a true vampiric sense of theatre, made a less polished exit. That is to say, its presence left, but the memory lingered. As did the smell. And a sort of aftertaste.

2 *"A _hem_ ", with the accent on the truncheon _._


End file.
